Book Review: THE FIRST ADVENT IN PALESTINE

Title: The First Advent in Palestine

Author: Kelley Nikondeha

Publisher: Broadleaf Books

Pages: 214

My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

The First Advent in Palestine was a beautiful book that stripped Advent of all the holiday revelry that pervades this holy time today and set it in the context of the conflict-ridden milieu in which Christ was born. It wasn’t a peaceful time by any means, and yet very few people point out the violence that that era of human history was fraught with.

The Palestine of the first Advent was just as conflict ridden as it is today. The types of dangers that people faced differed, but life then, as now, was unpredictable and frightening.

 

The author juxtaposes the past with the present. Most newspapers and TV channels won’t even talk about the truth of what people in Palestine are grappling with. The sheer trauma on account of Israel’s cruelty. Tear gas, stun grenades, rubber-coated bullets and an ongoing genocide are the reality of the people of Palestine.

The author draws parallels between then and now, helping us to see their humanity and empathise with their struggles. Shepherds, she tells us, were the “essential workers” of that time. Today’s tyrannical and insecure leaders is what Herod was.

The author upturns our long-held notions about how there was no room at the inn, telling us that’s not how Palestinians are.

Along the way, she introduces us to Israeli Messianic Jews, Jews who believe that Jesus was the Messiah.

The book is non-fiction, but the writing is literary and luminous.

One thing you can do in the dark is light a candle. Another is tell a story.

In fraught places, childhood is complex.

There is a fierceness that coexists with kindness.

I must admit that I haven’t read much of the Old Testament. But reading this book, I got a better understanding of the force of God’s promise of peace to the world. It helped me to understand the context of the Gospel, how Christ wasn’t born in a picture-perfect crib. Reading this book took away the tinsel and holly and made the season real.

It’s ironic how it’s now the Jewish state of Israel that is visiting death and destruction on others, namely, the people of Palestine. We don’t speak enough about the pain being unleashed and perpetrated in Palestine.

The book looks at the traumatised people of Palestine through the lens of humanity to acknowledge their suffering. It takes us along to bear witness to Zachariah’s story and Mary’s too, the former of disbelief, the latter of acceptance. Alongside these, we read the stories of Palestinians today, Sliman Mansour, Nafez Assaily etc.

The book forced me to think of things I hadn’t considered. Like how silent night, holy night doesn’t necessarily mean peaceful because nightfall brings dangers. Only privilege can equate silence with peace. I realised that as we go from year to year, from Advent to Lent and back, the need for that peace remains.

Flight to Egypt, a painting by Palestinian painter Sliman Mansour, has been used on the cover. The image of Mary, the infant in her arms, with a UN care package, reinforces how the Holy Family was seeking normalcy and peace in their lives.

This is the book I didn’t even know I wanted.

(I read this book on Edelweiss. Thank you to the author, the publisher and Edelweiss.) 

Book Review: WALKING WITH MARY

  Walking With Mary by Edward Sri (Excerpt #2) by Image Books

Edward Sri’s Walking with Mary invites us to walk along with Mary along her journey from the moment she said Yes to the angel Gabriel to the moment when that Yes received fruition on the cross.

Sri’s devotion to Mary and subsequent strengthening of his faith started out in the best possible way: with questions.

While the Bible does not offer details about the unfolding of the most significant moments in history from Mary’s perspective, Sri pieces together the insights provided in the four Gospels, besides insights put forward by theological scholars. We get an understanding of what life must have been like then, of the hazards of having to travel miles while being in an advanced stage of pregnancy, of Mary’s journeying forth to be with her kinswoman Elizabeth, on receiving the news of her impending motherhood, despite being advanced in years.

Sri relates Mary’s experience to real-life instances that we can relate to. Mary’s Yes was the beginning of her journey of faith. It was a journey in which she must have struggled for answers, she must have floundered in her doubts, but she walked on regardless. 

Even before His first miracle in Cana, she believes that He will do something to help the Jewish householder, the father of the bride. She believes with a steadfast faith, even though she has no tangible evidence of that which she clings to so strongly.

The book discusses nine significant moments in Mary’s journey. At the beginning, the book sounded more than a little repetitive, as Sri seems to find more than one way to say the same thing. On a personal note, it was enlightening to know the depth of scholarly research about Mary. Sri relates Scripture passages from the Old Testament and correlates them with passages from the New Testament to point out the depth and strength of Mary’s commitment to God, and to demonstrate the fact that everything took place exactly as Scripture said it would.

(I received a copy of Walking with Mary from WaterBrook Multnomah.)

The Spirit of Christmas Past

Christmas is most real to a child, perhaps because the Creator of the world came to us in the form of a child.


As children, preparing for Christmas, it was a delight to do something good and not be found out. The parish priest of St John the Baptist Church, Thane, (I think his name was Fr Peter something), came up with an ingenious idea to prepare the Sunday School children for Christmas. While others cleaned their homes, we children should clean our hearts, he said.


He handed each of us a single sheet of paper on which the popular image of a heart, with numerous lines crisscrossing it, was printed. The crisscrossing lines would total up to more than 300 little squares. The idea was that all through Advent, we should do something nice for someone and offer it as our gift to God. With each good deed, we would be permitted to colour one of those little squares. On Christmas Eve, we were encouraged to place our coloured hearts, a symbol of our love for God, in the manger at the church crib. Wrapped as He was in nothing but swaddling robes, our coloured hearts would keep Him warm.


Looking back, I recall that none of my good deeds were really scale-breaking. Sometimes I may have foregone a sweet that my brother wanted. Or I may have given up watching a favourite TV programme and tried to help mum instead.


More than the deed itself, it was the spirit in which it was done that made it significant. For once, we thought of the needs of others, rather than our own. For once, we swallowed our pride and grief, if we were scolded undeservedly. For that one time in the year, we would try our best to be a little less selfish, a little more generous, a little more as God would have us be.


The Wise men came with their gifts. We brought our hearts. It was with a glow in my heart that I would place mine at the manger, knowing without the shadow of a doubt that just as the Babe smiled upon the little drummer boy in one of my favourite Christmas songs, He would look with delight upon me.


My parents never bought us gifts at Christmas. Partly because our financial circumstances didn't permit it. But more importantly, because we were just not aware of the tradition of buying one another gifts for Christmas. The way my parents taught us to view Christmas, the focus was always on the Birthday Boy, whose birth transformed the world.


So the tradition of piling up neatly wrapped gifts at the foot of the Christmas tree and pretending it was Santa Claus who had bought them for us never featured in our memories of Christmas Past. In fact, for a very long time, we didn't even have a Christmas tree.


Dad used to make a crib, a small visual representation of the Nativity. It was a small house that Dad had fashioned out of leftover plywood. It wasn't at all ramshackle as the real one must have been, but that was because Dad had good carpentry skills. With loving hands, he would smooth sawdust on the floor, place the thatched and stitched roof on top of the house and put the little statues in their positions. Even as he tried his best to make the little house as comfortable as possible, he would tell us, "The real stable must have been dirty and smelly. Imagine the trouble that Our Lord willingly accepted for our sake."


All through Advent, my excitement would be steadily built up, rising in intensity as Mum made a different Christmas sweet each day for our kuswar (Christmas goodies). One day, it would be neureos, then perad the next day, dodol the day after, and cake and kormolan the next. The following day, it would be two types of doce (the Portuguese word for sweet). one made of chana dal, and the other of local bread or pao. They were both my favourites, chonya doce and unddya doce, unddo meaning the Konkani word for bread. This would be followed by batk or bolinhas. For the local flavour, Mum would make chaklis and besan laddoos and our basket of Christmas goodies would be complete.


Day after day, our little home would be redolent with the aromas of all these sweets. It was another reminder that Christmas was approaching. As these Christmas goodies were being made at home, I would go to school with a heavy heart. Somehow it seemed unfair to miss all the excitement even for a few hours.


Incidentally, one of my cousins, so went a famous family story, apparently wrapped up a school exam in a fraction of the time allotted to write it because she did not want to miss out on the kormola making at home. While it was a very amusing story that never failed to bring on the laughs, dear cousin, if you read this, I want you to know that I thought your action was thoroughly excusable. :)


Meanwhile, Dad would decorate our little house with colourful buntings and balloons, even as Christmas carols would be playing on our little tape recorder. Mum would sew Christmas dresses for the two of us. The finishing touches would be put at the very last minute, often because there was so much that she had to do, while managing her sewing business too.


While these preparations were on, my excitement would be muffled, under wraps. It was only when Dad got the crib ready, often the last step in our Christmas decorations, that the warm feeling in my heart would smoulder into a full-blown fire.


Those childhood Christmases were beautiful. I remember the thrill that used to come over me at Mass on the first Sunday of Advent when the choir would sing, "Bestir thy power, and come, Lord, to save thy sin-laden race." It used to be my cue to give in to unmitigated joy and excitement because my favourite time of the year was finally here.


Truly, there is no Christmas like the one experienced by children. One casualty of being a grown-up is that unfortunately we lose the tenderness and affection that we used to experience as children. We lose the warm Christmassy feeling and merely end up keeping the date.


This year, I resolve to change all that. I resolve to become a child again at Christmas time. I resolve to re-live the excitement that was mine, all those years ago, and to share in the delight of my little daughter and son and two nephews. I resolve to open my heart again so that when I peer into the crib and look at the little Babe lying in the manger, I can feel content that I have made my heart a fit dwelling for Him.